


honeyed tea

by secret_ivy



Series: The Memories Collection [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Don't copy to another site, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Greg in love, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_ivy/pseuds/secret_ivy
Summary: “Really?”“Really.”A shift of bodies and blue bedsheets. Greg turns on his side, props his head up on his arm to look at Mycroft.“Let me think on it.”Mycroft smiles and reaches over, “I look forward to it, Gregory,” and pulls his lover in.





	1. honeyed tea

**Author's Note:**

> Greg’s turn. 
> 
> This is written in a different style than _the whole shape of it_ , so feedback is welcome and appreciated.

He thinks about his parents’ garden.

About the chives that would grow all the time, even in the chill; about the smooth skin of green tomatoes; about the neighbor’s cat that would sneak in and nap on the branches of the overgrown sycamore tree.

He soaks in the heat, sitting in the shade. The bone-deep satisfaction every time a breeze would pass his neck, cooling the sweat there.

There’s a glass of iced tea in his hand. Chrysanthemum with a spoonful of honey, like his father preferred it. His mum took it without.

“Gregory.”

He turns his head.

Mycroft is sitting in a lawn chair, eyes closed, head tilted back, long legs stretched out. His fingers are laced together, laying on top of his stomach. He’s wearing the light gray suit he put on this morning, his tie the same blue as the sky above.

He’s barefoot, Greg notices, something soft and bright blooming in his chest at the sight. 

“Mycroft.” But the other man says nothing more, just smiles, and continues to doze in the shade.

* * *

The house was sold years ago, even before they had met. 

Anything over 27 is a red zone for Mycroft. (Bless whatever powers existed above for that one time the man decided to throw etiquette out the window and wear just black pants with bold red trim at home.)

But he would have liked the chance to take Mycroft here, to this bubble of lazy summer tasting of honeyed tea.


	2. in the middle of the night

He wakes up in the middle of the night.

It takes him a moment, limbs heavy, eyes still adjusting, to realize he can see in front of him. There's a light behind him that must have been left on. Probably the lamp on Mycroft's nightstand. 

He just wants to go back to sleep. He rubs his cheek against the pillow and closes his eyes.

After a long moment, he mentally sighs. It's always been a pet peeve of his, leaving the light on. 

As slowly as possible, he turns around.

And there's just miles and miles of pale skin. A spill of familiar freckles.

Mycroft is sleeping on his stomach, head turned away from him. The lamplight softly illuminates red hair and the dips of shoulder blades. He stares, caught, in the soft shadow at his lover's hip, just above the line of pajamas.

He's too tired to feel even a hint of physical arousal, but he still leans forward. Hovers, barely brushing his mouth over his favorite cluster of freckles, right at bottom of Mycroft's nape. Back across to where neck meets shoulder, _easy, easy, he got in late, need to let him sleep._ Breathes in the scent of citrus and verbana, the posh soap Greg's mum had gifted them last Christmas. 

He settles back on his side of the bed, head turned toward the other man. Looks at Mycroft's left hand laying on the bed between them. Thinks about how bare the fingers seem to look. 

_Huh_. There's no question, just a languid conclusion.

Without meaning to, he falls back asleep, the light still on.

* * *

_His face is in his hands, but he -knows- without seeing that Mycroft is blinking, blinking, blinking at him. The heat of his blush seeps down his chest._

_"Oh, Gregory," and he feels the lightest of touches, a puff of breath against the back of his hands, fingertips against his engagement ring._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When did you know you wanted to marry me?_


	3. I know all your tells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's so many flower/plant puns, I'm so sorry

"Ivy represents friendship and fidelity," states Mrs. Wilkins, Year 4 English, standing in front of the class. They're on page 43, and he's staring at the pictures in the book. His finger traces the outline of the leaves.

"What's fidelity mean?" another classmate asks. Mrs. Wilkins gives them the brightest smile.

"Loyalty, devotion. Like, when you have a friend and want to be with them all the time, that feeling."

* * *

A week later, his best friend Brian invites him to his birthday party and sleepover. Greg immediately thinks of sunflowers ( _they draw them together, sharing crayons_ ), as many as he could carry by himself, as a birthday present. He asks his da for help, but he says that boys only give flowers to girls, which is a stupid rule.

Years later, he's asked to be a groomsmen when the love-drunk fool gets engaged. He has a rose, Meyer-lemon yellow and slightly open, pinned to his jacket lapel. Brian ugly cries during his vows.

It isn't the same as an armful of sunflowers, but he thinks everything worked out more than fine.

* * *

On their one year anniversary of being a couple, he gives his girlfriend a dozen roses, a mix of solid red and pink blooms surrounded by sprigs of ivy. He wants her to know that it isn't just sex and youthful passion to him; he's offering friendship and a home on good days and bad days. There's a ring and a promise.

That's not what she wanted in the end. Even before he finds out about the affair ( _Christ_ , _affairs, his chest carved out again_ ), Greg hadn't bought flowers for her in a long, long time.

He's not sure if that's because he always knew, deep down, about the cheating — or worse, that the soft part of him he shows only to people he cares for, the part that thinks about living things and growth and _loyalty, devotion, that feeling_ , was gone, withered down to nothing inside of him.

* * *

On a lazy Saturday morning, he goes to the local grocery. As he walks pass the flower section, he gets a whiff of lavender. He pauses to take another breath of the floral scent.

He spots a nearby table of mini succulents and cacti. There's a prickly, squat cactus with an absurdly pink bud on the top of it like a hat. The little inscription on the side states that it should bloom in late spring or summer.

When Mycroft comes to his flat that evening with takeout, his blue eyes narrow at the new addition to the coffee table. Greg barely holds in his laugh and retreats to the kitchen niche to get water for the both of them.

This thing between them is relatively new (or maybe dormant until recently). Luckly, he can still take advantage of all these years of friendship between them to tease a bit. A terribly mischievous part of him has developed a taste for Mycroft's louder reactions and the way the taller man _blushes all over_. 

Greg is stepping back into the living room, when he notices a soft, needle-like sensation in his chest. Mycroft turns toward him at that moment and narrows his eyes further ( _You can't hide the humor in your eyes. I know all your tells, Gregory Lestrade._ ).

His brain suddenly goes _oh, that's what that feeling is_ and _alright, then_.

"Do you like it? Got it this morning." He places the glasses of water on the table and takes one side of the sofa. 

"It doesn't seem to go with your decor." Mycroft slides off his suit jacket and lays it out flat on a nearby chair to prevent creases. He sits on the other end of the sofa and starts opening the containers.

Greg smiles and moves closer until their legs lightly touch. "Give it a bit. It's supposed to bloom soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _How did you fall in love with me?_


End file.
